Killers' Confessions
by Dora
Summary: John Constantine counsels a confused Michelle Sattler. Takes place after All The Little Children, and before Broken, Twisted, Sinless.


DISCLAIMERS: John Constantine is DC/Vertigo's. Michelle Sattler is mine, Simon Carstairs belongs to Si, and all remaining characters are property Marvel Comics. I'm making nothing off of this, for reference.   


NOTES: A moment in the friendship of John and Ren, as he calls her, and the tumultous relationship of Michelle and Simon. Takes place eleven years after All The Little Children, and several months before Broken, Twisted, Sinless. God, Michelle seems like a Mary Sue, doesn't she? (Well, it _is_ what she started life out as...) Don't ask me why I write so much with her and John, there is no logical answer. Nothing interesting about the title, what with Michelle being a professional mercenary and John having that nasty habit of getting his friends killed.   


* * *

  
She sat at the edge of a windowsill, watching the sunset and a million miles away. Wisdom -- both of them -- had left hours before, and from the moment they'd exited his flat, she'd taken up that window. John could sense the conflict roiling about, and he felt for her. She wasn't the same girl he'd known eleven years earlier, but sometimes it was close.   


His only consolation for the heart-to-heart he knew was imminent was that at least she hadn't been drinking. Adrienne always got overemotional when she drank.   


"Oi, Ren. You're stealing all the view. Move your arse." He had to wait close to a minute before she moved, seeming to break from a trance.   


"Sorry." She unfolded from the windowsill -- sometimes John honestly believed that Ren was all legs -- and moved to his worn couch, curling up on one of the cushions, eyes closed against the dim lighting of his flat. "Can I stay the night?"   


"Depends on what you mean by staying the night." John said, ignoring the reflexive come hither look she directed his way. He took a spot on the couch nearby, yanking at a denim-clad ankle and draping her legs over his lap.   


"That a request?"   


"What if it is?"   


He rolled his eyes in response to the facial shrug she gave, speaking up before she could start stripping. "Shite, Ren, I'm not serious. You ought to know that." John sighed and squeezed her foot gently. "And I don't bed the unwilling."   


"Who says I'm unwilling?"   


"You do, you plonker. If you were pining for that uppercrust Scots any more, I'd probably have to kill you out of pity."   


She scowled and sat up quickly, green eyes flashing indignantly. It relieved him, a little. At least she was still capable of getting angry.   


"I'm not--"   


"Shove it, Ren. You could never lie to me." Glaring, she sat back, and John continued to pat her feet without a thought. "So do you love him? Don't outright deny, Ren -- it's more than sexual tension, I can see that."   


"No."   


"I thought I told you..." He shook his head, dismissing the argument before she successfully changed topics.   


"It's all right to fall in with the lovesick sots, Ren. Look at Pete with Kitty, right? He didn't have a fuckin' soul before her. Hell, look back at me and Kit."   


"Ryan?"   


He nodded. Talking about Kit still hurt, always would, but at least now she was safe from the dangers he carried. "If Wisdom and I were sorry enough, there's nothing wrong--"   


"John, spare me, okay? This is especially disgusting, coming from you. Look, I don't know. His family hates me."   


They both knew she was lying there, if only partially, and she looked away guiltily. "And it's all because of that stupid link I put up, besides..."   


All due to a raging case of overprotectiveness, John thought, and made sure he did so "loud" enough for Ren to pick it up. The disconcerted expression which filtered over her face told him that he'd done so successfully. "And I don't want a relationship, and with Carstairs, that's the only option."   


"You only say that because you've never had anything more than a casual fuck before, Ren."   


She didn't sputter like he almost expected, but the reaction she did give was even more surprising. John stared shamelessly at the blush that crept over her cheeks. Of all the things to be embarrassed of...   


"Shite. Adrienne..."   


When she sighed, he wanted to do the same. When she pulled her feet out of his lap and buried her face in her hands, he considered feeling guilty. The feeling didn't cooperate, and John just continued to watch one of the few living people he continued to give a damn about with an impassive gaze.   


Thankfully, she didn't cry, but they both knew it was a fight not to. John could only remain silent, unable and unwilling to express his sympathy. He did feel it, though. For a woman who hated femininity as much as Ren, including heavy emotions, this was humilation like none other.   


"Bastard," she muttered some time later.   


"You knew that."   


She raked both hands through her hair, letting them tangle of their own accord. In his mind's eye, John saw her as the seventeen year-old girl he first knew, and suddenly felt his age. She was going on 30. He was going to be fucking 50. Christ.   


"What do I do?" came out of nowhere, the openly pleading look she directed his way almost painful. She was putting aside her abundance of pride for this. John realized that neither one of them would ever speak of the current conversation ever again. He silently wished for Kit. Or Romany. They both made him ache in ways that weren't entirely unpleasant.   


"Think about who you're asking, Ren."   


"You're the only person I've got, John. Walking plague or not, I do trust you."   


And if that declaration wasn't the touch of death, he didn't know what was.   


He took his time in replying, sitting back slowly and lighting another cigarette. Counseling was always a bitch.   


"I don't know."   


She said nothing, her crestfallen expression speaking volumes for her. Yes, there were definitely moments when the dividing line between seventeen and 28 was exceptionally thin.   


" 'Strewth, Ren. The only thing I could suggest is that you do everything I didn't, and avoid what I did put on the table."   


Which basically meant going against her nature and spilling her soul to that broody little Oxford-trained Scotsman she'd picked up along the way. He contemplated investing in a camera for the show that Adrienne would provide if she listened to him.   


On the other side of his dingy couch, she rested her head on one of her arms, blinking with a sleepy slowness. He recognized the signs: now that she was done putting herself through the wringer by way of _him,_ the little tart, she was going to let her mind wander again. There were moments when John truly envied telepaths, who could at least send some of their most important parts out of reach and into safety.   


He followed her cue, allowing his own psyche to do a bit of traveling. Neither one of them noticed when John's cigarette burned down to his fingers, too lost in their thoughts. 


End file.
